{"id":162209,"date":"2022-10-31T11:00:51","date_gmt":"2022-10-31T15:00:51","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=162209"},"modified":"2022-10-31T11:13:36","modified_gmt":"2022-10-31T15:13:36","slug":"dawn-kaspers-death-scenes","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2022\/10\/31\/dawn-kaspers-death-scenes\/","title":{"rendered":"Dawn Kasper\u2019s Death Scenes"},"content":{"rendered":"
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DAWN KASPER, \u201cMICHELLE FRANCO\u201d (2003), ANNA HELWING GALLERY, CHICAGO ART FAIR. Photo courtesy of David Lewis Gallery.<\/p><\/div>\n

Around the turn of the millennium, when she was twenty-three, the artist Dawn Kasper began picturing herself dead. Then a first-year graduate student at UCLA Arts, she was spending a great deal of time in isolation in her studio, and the rest of her time consuming material that revolved in some way around violence: video nasties, death-scene photographs by Weegee, Andy Warhol\u2019s Death and Disaster<\/em> silk screens, etc. Eventually, a nagging thought set in: However many entries she slotted into her ever-expanding mental Rolodex of female death scenes\u2014Janet Leigh bleeding out in a motel bathtub, or Sherilyn Fenn having her pretty head cracked open in a car crash; Teri McMinn\u2019s slender shoulders being sickeningly thumped onto a meat hook, or the sister in Catherine Breillat\u2019s Fat Girl<\/em> being slashed through with an axe\u2014she would never have the opportunity to see her own death as a cinematic image. \u201cI wanted to see what I looked like dead,\u201d Kasper recalls in an email. \u201cI began to feel afraid\u2014not of my own mortality, but of never knowing how I might die.\u201d It is not unusual for a first-year student, and a first-year art school student in particular, to be morbid. What was unusual about Kasper\u2019s burgeoning obsession with death was her conviction that it might be possible to influence the circumstances of her own demise. She began to believe that if she could fake being killed in every possible scenario, she could cheat fate, as if anticipating all of death\u2019s potential moves might neutralize them. \u201cAs a woman, I felt so out of control,\u201d Kasper says of herself at that age. \u201cI began to worry that I was crazy.\u201d<\/p>\n

I first heard about Dawn Kasper\u2019s series Death Scenes<\/em> via a fleeting mention on a podcast<\/a> by the brilliant Irish critic Sean McTiernan. Curiously, I could find little in the way of documentation of the work online, save for a brief summary of the project on the artist\u2019s Wikipedia page under the heading \u201cEarly work\u201d: \u201cFor this series Kasper assumed a performative rigor mortis<\/em> with a mise-en-sc\u00e8ne<\/em> reminiscent of B horror films and Weegee-eqsue crime scene photography.\u201d The entry quotes art critic Rachel Mason: \u201cFor years, Dawn could be spotted, dead, at art events all over Los Angeles, in the tradition of Harold and Maude, sprawled out in an elaborate shrine to some horrific accident.\u201d Kasper researched real accidents both as a means to ensure the visual and physical accuracy of her performances, and to exorcise her terror more completely. \u201cI didn\u2019t care so much about the audience,\u201d she admits. \u201cI wanted to feel; I wanted help. I guess looking back I was very selfish, because I just dumped all over them, and didn\u2019t even look back or ask questions.\u201d<\/p>\n

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Dawn Kasper, \u201cThe Motorcycle Accident\u201d (2003), Anna Helwing Gallery. Photo courtesy of David Lewis Gallery.<\/p><\/div>\n

If self-injury is in some way the ultimate use of the body as material, a rejection of personal safety and good sense in service of a higher and more significant goal, the act of dying (or \u201cdying\u201d) in public might be the most perfect and most crystalline expression of that impulse. Other artists have come close. The famous poet and performer Bob Flanagan\u2014who suffered from cystic fibrosis, and who claimed that his passionate love of S&M was what allowed him to outlive his terminal prognosis by two decades\u2014gestured to his imminent death again and again in his work, with coffins and obituaries and hospital beds recurring as motifs. In his ideal artwork, he informs the audience in the 1997 documentary Sick<\/em>, \u201cI\u2019d be buried with a video camera \u2026 in a tomb,\u201d with a connection from the camera to a video monitor. The piece would be called The Viewing<\/em>, \u201cand every so often someone [could] walk into the room and turn on a switch, and see how I\u2019m progressing.\u201d Doctors had told Flanagan that he would die at twenty-five, right around the age Dawn Kasper was when she first became obsessed with recreating her own hypothetical expiry. If her youthful mania was about prevention, Flanagan\u2019s felt more like goading, a seduction. \u201cI keep thinking I\u2019m dying, I\u2019m dying,\u201d he wrote in his diaristic book of sickness, The Pain Journal<\/em>. \u201cBut I\u2019m not, I\u2019m not\u2014not yet.\u201d Both artists have channeled a sense of terrible helplessness into a form of personal and creative empowerment, the results provocative precisely because they beckon something we are naturally inclined to avoid.<\/p>\n

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Dawn Kasper, \u201cThe Boating Accident\u201d (2003), Highways. Photo courtesy of David Lewis Gallery.<\/p><\/div>\n

When Kasper sent me photographs of the Death Scenes<\/em> performances, I found myself thinking of Susan Sontag\u2019s assertion, in 2003\u2019s Regarding the Pain of Others<\/em>, that \u201cthe appetite for pictures showing bodies in pain is as keen, almost, as the desire for ones that show bodies naked.\u201d Kasper\u2019s tableaux are startlingly visceral, but the resulting images are also as cinematic and visually seductive as the kind of horror-themed high-fashion shoots photographers Steven Klein and Steven Meisel were producing in the naughts. Sontag also said that pornography was in fact not about sex but about death, and the meticulous way Kasper styles her setups suggests a similar blurring of these themes, each coolly fetishized scene functioning as a commentary on the commodification of dead women and the sometimes titillating way they are presented on the news or in the movies. \u201cI have a difficult time with how women are treated and depicted in this country,\u201d she says. \u201cThey are so often put down; abused; used and then discarded.\u201d The Death Scenes<\/em> are abreactive; the trauma they relive and thus expunge is not that of the actual experience being depicted but that of women in toto: a sensation of being constantly at risk, on show, moments from a crash.<\/p>\n

\"\"

Dawn Kasper, \u201cThe Car Crash\u201d (2003), Track 16; Bergamont Station. Photo courtesy of David Lewis Gallery.<\/p><\/div>\n

\u201cI always thought it was so funny when I lay there in a pool of fake blood for hours and hours while people talked, laughed, and got drunk at art openings,\u201d Kasper recalls. \u201cThen, when the openings were over, I\u2019d get up, and people would thank me for the work, or tell me that they enjoyed the performance. It always felt so surreal. I felt like a phony, a fake, a liar; I felt like the court fool or jester, like the monkey that dances for coins. I realized that I was doing it all to myself, and it was all my fault. I was making myself feel this way, and for what? For art?\u201d Like Flanagan\u2019s work, Kasper\u2019s performances are not just riotously punk but also very funny. Both practitioners make it easy to see why Plato once characterized the act of laughing as the physical expression of the \u201cmixture of pleasure and pain that lies in the malice of amusement.\u201d Are the Death Scenes<\/em> malicious? Yes and no\u2014they are pointed and satirical, but their execution is undignified and uncomfortable enough to suggest an element of masochism, and that muddling of righteous anger and amusing self-debasement is the key to their success. \u201cCheating death, or faking it to make a living,\u201d Kasper writes, with what I imagine is a shrug, in the last line of our correspondence. \u201cIt\u2019s so silly to think about it all this way now. I guess I thought I was making a point.\u201d<\/p>\n

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Dawn Kasper, \u201cMichelle Franco\u201d (2003), Anna Helwing Gallery, Chicago Art Fair. Photo courtesy of David Lewis Gallery.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Philippa Snow is a critic and essayist. Her work has appeared in publications including\u00a0<\/em>Artforum,\u00a0The Los Angeles Review of Books,\u00a0ArtReview,\u00a0Frieze,\u00a0The White Review,\u00a0Vogue,\u00a0The Nation,\u00a0The New Statesman,\u00a0and<\/em>\u00a0The New Republic. She was shortlisted for the 2020 Fitzcarraldo Editions Essay Prize, and her first book,\u00a0<\/em>Which As You Know Means Violence, is out now with Repeater.<\/em><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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